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Life,
You have been cruel to me, so cruel. It seems like only yesterday he jumped and hung, yet in reality it has been weeks. Maybe the time merely seems fleeting due to my utter lack of interest in the world since... since it happened. Tears have become as permanent on my face as railway tracks, and they crisscross each other in the most peculiar manner.  An eon has passed since I last smiled.
   Why did you have to drive my son to take his life? Why did you make him bipolar? Up until now I believed in god, but nowadays I am not too sure. Was it my fault everything happened, for sending him away from home? The doctor recommended the school, but in the end it was the school which killed him.
   I should have kept my Marcus with me, whilst I still had him. I should have never picked up that brochure for Heatherington Gardens Private School. I feel as though my soul, once so light and shimmering, has been carved crudely out of me, leaving only a hard concrete shell.
   After the body was found, after the brief hospital visit, after the funeral, after he ceased to exist in the memories of the press and other assorted busybodies, I found his notebook. I found his precious moleskine. For the first time, I read my son's poetry. And it was breathtaking. I never knew what a talent he was, what a talent wasted.
   However, flitting from well thumbed page to well thumbed page, like some ghastly demon, is Mr Tarquin Smith. The man with the words, the man with the voice of comfort. Tarquin Smith, I cannot treat the name with enough contempt.
  Perhaps I should send this letter to him? Perhaps I should allow his eyes, which according to my son were 'as green as forest pools', to read my clumsy anguished words? I can imagine him now, reading this, 'rubbing his chin ponderously' whilst 'lost in thought deeper than thought' before laughing. Laughing at me. His 'moss-soft curls' would bounce mockingly as he chortled at my pain.
  Why is it that Tarquin Smith sits comfortably in prison whilst my son sleeps on hard wood underground?
   Why is life so unfair?
   All I want to know is how my son managed to fall so completely in love with someone like Tarquin Smith. What teenage boy could grow to love their English teacher? Because of Tarquin Smith, Marcus's young heart dragged him to suicide against his will. Now my world will never be the same.
   But want it to be, I desperately want it to be. So, I have decided to send this letter to you, Mr. Smith, in the vain hope that maybe you can answer some of my questions.
   One day I know that we will meet. I'll experience your golden tongue and your alluring good looks for myself. It'll not be a happy union, but I need to meet you.
                 Yours, Mrs. Davidson-Jones.